


'til the lights go down

by alwaysbuddy



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Dirty Talk, Dressing Room Sex, Elizabethan Costumes, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbuddy/pseuds/alwaysbuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan is a very obvious person. Ryan just likes to believe that he isn’t.</p><p>Miles isn’t going to do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'til the lights go down

**Author's Note:**

> This kind of happened no thanks to: 1) Miles and Ryan having that cute moment during the Halo stream, and 2) this staging of Richard III my friend was telling me about and how cute some of the outfits looked even though they were most uncomfortable thing they'd ever worn.
> 
> Also, the thought of theatre!nerd Ryan and stage-tech!Miles makes me want to die.
> 
> Tada, enjoy.

Maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there in this world, there actually exists a purpose for Miles wearing this get-up for a musical that doesn’t even require clothing from this specific period. 

“You’re the exact same size as some of the actors, and they can’t make it, so, please! Just try it on,” Lindsay had coaxed, much too persuasive for Miles to say no (and she’d bribed him with the promise of pancakes after). She’d tugged fabric over his head until he’d spluttered and eyed himself warily in the mirror of the dressing room. “Dude, you look fucking _great.”_

“I won’t actually need to wear this for the whole day, will I?” Miles asks, picking at the cloth cautiously with two fingers, nose scrunched up. He looks stuffy in this. Elizabethan-era clothing that looks terribly out of place in the midst of this fancy little dressing room filled with fancier things and much better dressed people. Well. Much more modern-dressed people, anyway. Or, just one other more modern-dressed person. Whatever. Man, what he’d give for a pair of jeans, right now.

Nonetheless, he has to admit, he does look okay in this. Rather alright. Good, if he can take the word of Lindsay, who's been circling him for minutes, snapping photos for comparison shots.

“Keep it on for a little while longer,” she tells him, patting his shoulder kindly, “I’m sure everyone will appreciate it.”

“Appreciate it? Wait, what—”

Miles stares after her as she flits out the doorway in a flash, and stands in the middle of the dressing room, a little unsure of what to do now. The costume fitting session for the musical is going to last the whole day, and even though he’s not one of the actors, he’ll have to stay to make sure Lindsay has everything in order for tomorrow. And she’d asked.

(More like bullied him into coming in. On a Sunday afternoon? Miles could have been stretched out across his couch, a controller in his hands, but nope.)

He’d acquiesced, and gone down with the rest of the cast who'd been called, obediently holding out his limbs as the costumers scuttled around him, holding out tape measures and ribbons and doublets and weird pieces of cloth and buttons and god knows what else they’re going to pin on him later.

There’s a pause, before he turns to the mirror to inspect the outfit properly. They’d put him in a doublet, and a cloak, and this awfully tight-fitting hose. Miles leans forward over the counter, and pats at his jaunty little cap. Kinda cute.

“Nice,” comes a voice from behind him, and Miles nearly jumps a foot into the air. It’s just Ryan, closing the door behind him, his grin on full blast. “They got to you, too?”

“What, you escaped that fast?” Miles remarks, huffing. “Lucky.”

“It’s not too bad,” Ryan soothes, but there’s still a hint of mischief behind his tone. “Blaine’s currently wearing a ton of Spartan armour for no reason. I think it’s because the outfit doesn’t come with a shirt. Or a chest-piece. Meg’s got pictures.”

“He got the short end of the stick then,” Miles says, “what a man, always taking one for the team. We are blessed.”

Ryan laughs, that adorable thing that makes Miles’ own smile grow immediately. No one can resist at least cracking the slightest bit of a smile whenever Ryan laughs. Not even Miles is immune to such powers. Yet. “You could say that again. But you do look good, though,” Ryan adds, almost as an afterthought, stepping forward. “Really nice.”

“Thanks,” Miles says, and he doesn’t know why he’s suddenly feeling shy. Maybe it’s the way Ryan is looking at him, really inspecting him, more than a once-over. His eyes combing down the length of his body, almost nonchalantly. It could pass off as a mere glance, perhaps. And perhaps, it could be something else. “It’s Elizabethan. I think. I wouldn’t really know.”

“It is,” Ryan murmurs, approaching slowly, “did Shakespeare, once. Had to wear the same.”

Miles only watches with his breath in his throat as Ryan reaches out to brush a knuckle softly along the hem of the dark purple cloak, tinseled satin and silk, that Miles has on, curling a finger along the braided edge and sliding down, as if feeling the fabric. Or maybe, just to let Miles feel his intentions.

There _are_ intentions, aren’t there? Miles isn’t stupid. He’s just young. But he can tell one expression from another, and the look in Ryan’s eyes is one he’s seen before. He’s seen it in the mornings, when the cast and crew show up at the crack of dawn for practice, sleep-logged; Ryan will always already be there, leaning against the stage, eyes following Miles as he stumbles in with lighting directions and a half-eaten poptart. He’s seen it in the late nights, when they’re all bundled up in a coffee-shop for a quick bite, Ryan’s gaze lingering on Miles’ mouth when he lifts his cup up for a sip.

Ryan is a very obvious person. Ryan just likes to believe that he isn’t.

Miles isn’t going to do that.

“Ryan?” he begins, soft, like the touch Ryan bestows upon the fabric of the uncomfortable doublet that he’s wearing. “Tell me what you want.”

Ryan might be taken-aback. Maybe. He schools it back easily, as he says, “Straight to the point?”

“The only way anything can get through to you, really,” Miles mutters, but he betrays his composure when Ryan rests his palms against Miles’ front, barely at first. The steady weight of his hands, sliding up, up, up to his shoulders is something that makes Miles’ breath catch in his throat as if someone’s just tightened the sable fur vest around his chest.

“The door’s locked,” Ryan says, taking a step closer, until it’s inches, just inches, or maybe a single inch left, between their noses, “and there's some sort of corset emergency going on outside. We’ve got, say, twenty minutes, while everyone’s preoccupied.”

“As long as you don’t tell on us,” Miles whispers, rolling the syllables in the ever-present cheek of his words, and Ryan doesn’t so much laugh this time as he does let out a chuckle, under his breath, a little deeper than what Miles is used to. 

“Promise,” Ryan says, and Miles fists his hands into the shirt that Ryan has on, the plain, scratchy, polyester t-shirt that he gets to wear while Miles is stuck parading around in this outfit. Miles tugs Ryan close, and kisses him, open-mouthed and rushed.

Ryan backs Miles back against the counter of the dressing table. The small of his back hits the edge with a tinge of pain, but Miles is too focused on the way Ryan slides a hand up his neck, dragging his fingers into Miles’ hair, knocking off the cap completely. 

God, Miles has wanted this. He hadn’t realised just how much he had. Only now, as Ryan scrapes his teeth up along the side of Miles’ jaw, licking and sucking kisses all the way down to the curve of his shoulder, where Ryan tucks two fingers into his collar and tugs it aside so he can press a kiss to the base of Miles’ throat, chuckling that husky little chuckle again when Miles lets out a soft whine, and clutches at Ryan’s hips, raising a foot backwards to find stability against the dressing table drawers.

“I want,” Ryan says, a little breathless as he presses the tips of his fingers to the buttons of Miles’ cloak, neat around his shoulders, “to take all of this off you, one by one.”

“What are you waiting for, then?”

The cloak goes, falling to the floor in a swish. Already, Miles feels a little more exposed, now. The hat and the cloak are gone. The little vest is next, and Ryan is already unbuttoning the doublet slowly, eyes on Miles’ face the entire time. Miles’ aware, he knows Ryan wants to see his reaction as Ryan slowly strips him down, in a dressing room that anyone could walk into if they had the wrong timing and the right key.

Miles distracts Ryan on the last button with a kiss, and the kiss turns into two, and Miles’ hips are rolling up against Ryan’s with all the impatience of anyone befitting his age. He’s already half-hard, cock rising in those awfully tight pants they’d put him in, and Ryan is eyeing him with just as much interest as Miles does for the strain in Ryan’s own jeans. 

There’s a fumble, and the doublet comes off easily, Ryan pushing it back off Miles’ shoulders, letting it slide down his arms. “God, you’re hot,” Ryan breathes, and Miles flushes despite himself, because jokingly telling yourself that you’re hot, and being told you’re hot by someone else are two completely different things, and Christ, does Miles know it.

“All of it goes,” Miles asserts, as Ryan tugs Miles’ dress shirt up and out, undoing enough buttons to slide a hand under the shirt. Miles shivers as Ryan’s warm palm smooths over his abdomen, fingers curled just a little, nails scraping along, and he yelps just the slightest when Ryan rubs a thumb over his nipple, teasing. “We can’t get any of this stuff dirty. Lindsay isn’t kidding when she says she carries around that taser Michael bought her for Christmas.”

“Obviously,” Ryan murmurs, “wouldn’t want anyone to know that I’d fucked you open with my fingers in a dressing room.”

Miles flushes again, as he always does whenever Ryan says anything unexpected. Ryan has never been known for particularly bold phrases, that’s more Miles’ forte, but Ryan does have his moments. Moments like these, when no one else is watching, when no one else can hear the quiet, dirty things Ryan’s mouth says. The quiet, dirty things Ryan’s lips press into Miles’ skin as he slides the shirt off and makes him turn around, facing the dressing table mirror.

Ryan produces the bottle of lube out of nowhere, it seems. “Behind the coat-rack,” he says, matter-of-factly, when Miles raises an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “You think we’re the first ones to get off in here? You’d be surprised who gets up to no good with who, in here.”

“Don’t want to know,” Miles announces, wriggling out of his pants, shrugging off the heavily laced boots as quickly as he can, as Ryan idly traces little paths down Miles’ spine with slicked fingers. “Just want you to fuck me.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Ryan says, but he’s pressing kisses down Miles’ back, alternating between teeth and tongue in a way that drives Miles absolutely insane, until Ryan gently presses a finger against his hole, making Miles sigh when his finger slides in, slow. 

He’s been craving this. It’s nothing like having your own fingers inside you, he knows. Ryan’s fingers are different, are just a little thicker, and that makes all the difference when he’s calling for another, and then it’s three, and Ryan curls his fingers in, the tips scraping over that one spot that makes Miles grab at the dressing table counter.

“Please,” he goes, a little distracted by the smile that Ryan shoots him over his shoulder, not betraying the fact that he’s moving his fingers in and out of Miles in a rhythm that has Miles arching into his hand, moving his hips back against it. _“Touch me.”_

“Like this?” Ryan mouths against the soft skin of his neck, as he reaches around Miles’ hip to wrap slick fingers around Miles’ cock, already flushed red with arousal, heavy and bobbing against his stomach as Ryan fucks into him with his fingers. 

Ryan’s hands work steady and quick, the one around Miles’ cock matching a rhythm with the fingers in Miles’ ass, upward strokes that end with an embellished flick of the thumb over the head of his cock. Miles is unraveling quickly, and he can barely look at himself in the mirror.

“No, look,” Ryan whispers, pressing their cheeks together, making sure that Miles’ facing the mirror as he watches himself get fucked well and good, “just look at that. You’re taking my fingers so well, aren’t you? And god, that cock of yours, such a pretty red. You’re going to come soon, aren’t you? Tell me, Miles.”

Miles can only manage a little strangled noise in the back of his throat, and a hoarse little, “Yeah.”

There’s a breath, and another, as Ryan curves his fingers back against that one spot that makes Miles see stars behind his eyes, just as Ryan pumps his cock through it, and that’s all it takes for him to go. Miles comes across his front, and Ryan’s hand, and the table, and he can barely register any of that as he leans back against Ryan with a bitten back groan.

“Great,” Ryan says, kissing his neck, removing his hands after a moment to let Miles steady himself. “You were so great.”

“Don’t you want me to return the favour?”

Ryan’s eyes darken as Miles drops to his knees, and it’s only the sound of their breathing, and the sound of a zipper being pulled down hastily, and the rustle of fabric, before Ryan chokes out a, “Fuck, _Miles,”_ tugging at Miles’ hair.

Miles knows he’s got a good mouth. Hell, he’s got a damned good mouth, and he’s not going to let that go to waste. He sucks Ryan off as steadily as he can, just a little too much spit this time, but Ryan seems to like it when Miles mouths at the head of his cock, tongue dragging up the underside. The little gasping sounds he’s making seems to be evidence enough of that.

It doesn’t take much for Ryan to come, since he’s been wound up from the very beginning, and they’re both left breathless, leaning against the dressing table counter.

“Gross,” Miles says, and he grabs what he hopes to be an unused cloth to clean off, making a mental reminder to throw it in the trash later. “Thanks, Ryan.”

Ryan just smiles at him, and leans in to kiss him again. Miles allows it, melting back into the touch, and god, he really likes Ryan kissing him. He really likes Ryan touching him like this. He guesses he just really likes Ryan. But nobody has to know about that just yet. Well.

“I hope this isn’t the last time,” says Ryan, sounding a little hopeful, and Miles’ chest swells with anticipation.

It definitely won’t be the last time. Oh, no. Miles will make sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Come aboard and sail this adorable little Lunawood canoe with me as it paddles along. :)


End file.
